


The Hidden City

by avantegarda



Series: It's the New World, Darling-A 19th-20th Century AU [4]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: 1920s AU, F/M, Gen, Gondolin, Historical AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-16
Updated: 2016-09-25
Packaged: 2018-08-09 05:46:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 6,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7789015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avantegarda/pseuds/avantegarda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A kid from nowhere seeks out an old family friend...and that's when things get interesting. A retelling of the Fall of Gondolin set in the 1920s. ~Newly revamped and reposted!~</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ghost Town

_Winter, 1923_

_Port Vine, Maryland_

Port Vine was one of those towns that had definitely seen better days. While the stately Victorian homes on the waterfront had probably once housed equally stately Victorian families, most of them had now been foreclosed or divided up into tenements. The overall effect was something like a ghost town.

But there were still people there who needed fish, and those fish needed to be caught, and as long as that was the case Tuor figured he could still make a buck.

There was only one fishing boat in the harbor…an old, worn-out skiff whose blue-gray color made it almost blend in with the surrounding water. Getting closer, Tuor could see the boat was occupied by a tall, thin old man with a beard that nearly reached his waist.

“Morning, grandpa! Could you use a hand for the day?”

The old man eyed him appraisingly. “Not as much as you could, I’m guessing. Climb aboard. What’s your name, kid?”

“Tuor van Hador. You?”

“Doesn’t matter. Grandpa will do fine. And what’s a young man like you doing in Port Vine?”

Tuor hesitated for a moment, uncertain exactly how much he should say. “Well, truth be told, I’ve been going from town to town recently, trying to make some money. I’m saving up to get to Chicago.”

“Hmm,” remarked the old man reflectively. “Seems to me a steady job in just one town would be a better way to it.”

“You’re probably right about that, but I…I can’t risk it.” The old man raised an eyebrow. “In a bit of trouble, were you?”

“I’m…not sure I should get into it.” He shrugged. “Tell me or don’t tell me, it’s up to you. Though I should think it’s obvious I’m not a cop, and I’m not likely to tell them anyone else’s business.”

“Well,” said Tuor hesitantly. “See, a few years ago I was in Charleston and got caught in the middle of trying to break up a fight, and accidentally shot some guy. Probably would’ve been considered self-defense and I would’ve gotten off, but it turned out the kid I shot was the sheriff’s son, so I got charged with murder and sentenced to twenty years in prison.”

“Hmm. And how’d you get out of that one?”

“Ran off. Me and a couple fellas on the chain gang. Eventually got the chains cut off and I’ve been on the move ever since.”

“You’re a lucky kid, seems like. So why Chicago?”

“I’m looking for Turgon Gates. He and my father were friends…my father saved his life, actually. I can’t think of anyone else who can give me a job without me having to worry about the law.”

The old man whistled slowly. “You’re ambitious, I’ll give you that. But I wouldn’t be surprised if you got there eventually. What surprises me is that you’re the second person this week to mention Turgon Gates to me.” “Really?” “Really. Kid by the name of Voronwe Andersen. Used to work for Gates, apparently. Seems he’s trying to get to Chicago too.”

Tuor turned around so quickly the boat shook. “Where can I find him?”

“Easy there, son. You’ll find him down at Riley’s Bar, I shouldn’t wonder. I’ve seen him there a time or two. Anyway, we’re nearly done here, so you can get on with your quest in a bit.”

They returned to the shore by late afternoon, with a reasonable load of fish for the time of year. The old man patted Tuor on the back and handed him five dollars. “Thanks, kid. Good luck, and tell Turgon Gates I said hello.”

“Thanks, will do. And say…” Tuor turned to the old man, but he was already walking away, fading into the mist.


	2. The Same Boat

Riley’s Bar was smoky, poorly-lit, and, surprisingly, not making any efforts to conceal that it was a bar. Tuor wondered for a moment, but figured that practically everyone had forgotten about Port Vine…even Prohibition.

He glanced around, trying to figure out who in here could be Voronwë Andersen. Likely not the two old fishermen in the corner booth…they didn’t look the Chicago bootlegger type. The old woman talking to herself in the shadows could be ruled out immediately. But stepping a bit further into the building, he could make out a thin, dark-haired young man sitting at the end of the bar.

Bingo.

“Can I buy you a drink, pal?”

On closer inspection, the young man looked like he’d been through the wringer…unshaven, torn clothes, dark circles under his eyes. He looked up at Tuor suspiciously.

“Do I know you?”

“Not yet, but I think I can hazard a guess as to who you are. Voronwë Andersen, yeah?”

“Ah…yes, but who told you that? You with the FBI or something?”

“Nah, nothing as interesting as all that. I was helping out an old fisherman today and he mentioned your name. Said you used to work for Turgon Gates.”

“Shhh!” hissed Voronwë. He glanced around worriedly. “Sorry, I don’t like to talk about the Gates family in public much. They’ve got enemies everywhere.”

“But you did work for him, then?”

Voronwë frowned. “Look, who are you, anyway? And what’s your interest in the boss?”

Tuor held out a hand. “Tuor van Hador. My pa was a good friend of the boss. I’m hoping that if I can get to Chicago, I can find a job with him.”

Eyes widening in surprise, Voronwë shook his hand. “You’re Huor van Hador’s son? Gee, I thought that family had all died out.”

“Close enough to it. As far as I know, I’m the last one left.”

“Hmm. I know how that feels.”

“How so?”

“I just got out of the Navy,” replied Voronwë, his voice dropping to just above a whisper. “Joined in 1917, but when the war ended my tour of duty wasn’t up, so I stayed in Europe with my unit. We shipped back to America about a month ago, but…we hit a bad storm on the way back. Ship sank. I had to pilot the lifeboat back here by myself. Since then, I’ve just been…lost.”

Tuor patted him on the back sympathetically. “That’s rough. Looks like you and me are in the same boat, pardon the pun.”

“Seems so.” Voronwë took a swig of his beer. “I expect you’ll be wanting me to take you to Chicago, then.”

“I’d be mighty grateful if you could.”

Voronwë sighed. “It wasn’t part of my plan to go back, honestly. I always thought I might go down to Mexico, where my mother’s family’s from. It’s beautiful there, really is. But hell, I don’t have enough dough to get down there. Don’t even know if my relatives are still there.” He looked down at the table, thinking, then turned back to Tuor.

“All right. Let’s go to Chicago.”


	3. Close Enough

_December, 1923_

_Somewhere in Indiana_

 

They’d started out the journey with seven dollars, a package of crackers, and a flask of whiskey. A week in, they were down to three dollars, ten crackers, and enough whiskey to last them through three, maybe four cold nights. If they were lucky.

The only sensible thing to do, then, was to spend the night in some godforsaken hobo jungle in a forest in Indiana.

Voronwë surveyed the few shabby tents and sputtering fire with a frown. “Do you always travel this luxuriously?”

Tuor laughed. “Ah, come on, it’s not so bad. At least there’s a fire.” He sniffed the air. “And someone’s cooking rabbit! Come on, let’s go, I’m starving.”

“You’re always starving.”

“And yet somehow I’m still alive. Evening, fellas!”

The occupants of the camp, most of them grizzled old men with impressive beards, grunted in response. One moved aside to clear a spot for them on his log. None of them said a word.

They were halfway through their bowls when a man crashed through the bushes. He stopped short of the fire and stared at them. They stared back.

He was dark-haired,wild-eyed, and unshaven, wearing clothes that had probably been nice once before days of travel. He flopped down in front of the fire and buried his face in his hands.

“God forgive me, I’ve destroyed them all,” he whispered. “Half the family dead and it’s all my fault.”

Tuor leaned forward, concerned. “Hey. You okay, pal?”

The stranger looked up, eyes widening. He held Tuor’s gaze for a moment, with a faint flicker of recognition in his eyes.

But before Tuor could say anything else, the stranger had leapt to his feet and disappeared back into the woods.


	4. Welcome to the Family

_Christmas Eve, 1923_

_Chicago_

“So…you know the password for this place, right?” said Tuor nervously.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” replied Voronwë with a roll of his eyes. “This club changes its password every week and I’ve been gone since 1917. The only reason they’ll set us in is because I used to work here, and you’re…well, a van Hador. I think that’s still a respected last name around here.”

Tuor’s stomach rumbled louder than was strictly polite, and he grimaced. The last time he and Voronwe had eaten a good meal had been three days ago when that old woman in Ohio  had invited them in for supper—since then they’d been reduced to stealing pies off windowsills and eating the few packages of crackers in Voronwe’s bag. Turgon Gates’ speakeasy was hidden underneath a restaurant; surely the old man would be able to cough up a Christmas dinner before he shot them.

After Voronwë’s three quick knocks on what looked like a storeroom door, it seemed like an eternity before a panel slid aside and a suspicious gray eye peeked out at them.

“Password,” the person behind the door demanded.

“Elemmakil, it’s me. Voronwe Andersen. You remember me, we were at school together, I used to work here…”

“Voronwë? Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, I thought you died in the Navy. You sure as hell look skinny. Who’s that with you?”

“That’s my friend Tuor. He’s got business with the boss.”

“Sorry, old boy, you know we can’t let just anyone in to see the boss. He’s a busy man, no time to spare for hobos.”

“Hey, I’m not a hobo,” said Tuor indignantly. “Well, I guess I am, but I’m not just a hobo. My pa was Huor van Hador. From what I’ve heard he was a friend of the boss’.”

There was silence. Then a click, and the door opened, to reveal a flight of stairs and a dark-haired young man grinning sheepishly.

“Sorry about that,” he said. “The boss is big on privacy. But if you’re Huor van Hador’s son, well…no one’s going to keep you out.”

The flight of stairs led to another door, this one guarded by a man who introduced himself as Ecthelion Bellafonte and reacted similarly to Tuor’s last name. It was Ecthelion who led them through the crowded, glittering, noisy speakeasy to a door in the back, marked PRIVATE in large, commanding letters.

“You ready?” asked Voronwë. “If you get involved with this family, there’s no backing out.”

Tuor thought for a moment, then shrugged. “Well, it can’t be any worse than where I’m from.”

And he opened the door and stepped into Turgon Gates’ office.

Three pairs of dark eyes were turned upon him immediately as he entered. One belonged to a pale young man standing to the right of the huge desk. One belonged to a pretty blonde girl in a blue dress sitting on the left side of said desk. And one…one belonged to a handsome, stern-faced man in spectacles frowning at him from behind the desk.

“Turgon Gates.”

The party in question raised an eyebrow. “And you are….?”

“Tuor van Hador. You… you knew my father, back before I was born, he…”

“Saved my life.” Turgon’s face softened. “ Of course I remember him. What can I do for you, son?”

This was it. He drew a breath and clenched his fists.

“I’m looking for a job.”

\-----------------------------------

“So you’re from…where, exactly?”

“Ah…West Virginia,” Tuor replied, suddenly painfully aware of his hillbilly accent in comparison with all these upper-class Brits. Then again, he already looked like a hobo, so the accent couldn’t make things much worse.

“Hmmm,” said Glorfindel Delafleur, the elegant blond fellow who’d asked him. “Can’t say I’ve ever been there.”

Tuor snorted. “Do yourself a favor and stay that way. It ain’t exactly Paris.”

“I know your father died in the war…did you live with just your mother, then?” asked the pretty girl from the office (Tuor had since discovered that her name was Idril, she was the boss’ only daughter, and that she was as businesslike and brilliant as her father).

“Actually, no. When Ma got the news that Pa had died she went a little wild and ran off, and got taken in by this coal-mining family—the Swansons. Good people. I was born in their house. But a few days after I came along, Ma…killed herself. Sleeping pills. It was the Swansons who brought me up.”

There was a chorus of sympathetic murmurs and shaking heads from around the table. Eventually Ecthelion spoke up. “So how did you wind up in Chicago?”

“Well, Uncle Annael had been in the war with my pa and he’d told me how Pa’d saved the life of a rich and famous gangster, so I always wanted to come here and track him down. Then when I was sixteen there was an explosion and the coal mine went out of operation, and we were running out of money, so I decided to set out and start providing for myself. I traveled around doing odd jobs for…let’s see, about seven years? Tryin’ to save up to come here. Then when I was in Maryland working for some old fisherman I ran into Voronwe, and since he’d worked here it seemed only right for us to come here together. So I came here, and we got in, and then it was now, and then I don’t know what happened.”

“That’s a swell story,” remarked Glorfindel. “They ought to make a moving picture from it. Maybe with Valentino and Keaton. Idril, love, go fetch me a martini, would you?”

“Do I look like a waitress, Delafleur?” snapped Idril. “Get your own damned martini.” She ran her fingers through her sleek bob and sighed. “So. New boy. I take it you’ve never been in a speakeasy before?”

“No, ma’am. To be honest, I always thought swanky places like this only existed in the pictures.”

Idril made a noise that in a less attractive girl Tuor would have called a snort. “If this was a moving picture then I doubt I’d have so much work to do.”

“Ah, come off it, Gates, you know you wouldn’t stop working even if you married the Shah of Persia,” laughed Ecthelion. “This girl may look sweet and pretty, van Hador, but I’m of the opinion she could take down the whole Angband mob just by lecturing them for an hour about bookkeeping.”

Idril shrugged. “Probably, yeah.”

Tuor decided he liked her.


	5. The Bee's Knees

_Christmas Eve, 1926_

 

Idril had never thought of herself as a romantic. Romance was for other girls, ones from nice families, who didn’t have to work fourteen-hour days and constantly deal with threats from governments and cops and mobsters. Romance was for girls who had it easy.

But it had been three years, and she was reaching the point where she had to admit that she was absolutely crazy about Tuor van Hador.

Ever since she’d been a little girl fleeing England with her family, almost all the people around her had been cynical, and hard, and tired. She’d become like that herself. But Tuor…he was so happy. He was cheerful and honest and hardworking and sweet. Reminded her a bit of a dog her uncle Fingon had had back in the day (though obviously she’d never fantasized about kissing the dog). Trouble was, she had no idea how he felt about her. He was an absolute angel to her, of course, but then he was like that to everyone. It was difficult to tell whether he wanted to marry her or just thought of her as a good pal. That was why, at tonight’s Christmas Eve party, she intended to get an answer out of him.

She was looking sharp, Idril knew that. Sparkly gold Lanvin dress, matching headband, and damn if her legs didn’t look fantastic. Not her usual kind of getup, but then again, she didn’t set out to catch a man every day. And if she got a little too much of Maeglin’s attention…well, she’d just ignore him as usual.

The ballroom was already crowded by the time she made her way downstairs. Glorfindel and Ecthelion stood in the center, surrounded by a gaggle of flappers. Dad was in the corner chatting with Duilin Swallowford. And Tuor…ah, yes, there he was with Voronwe, having somehow stolen an entire platter of shrimp cocktails from one of the waiters and grinning from ear to ear. He was always doing that. It was adorable.

“Well, well, well!” she declared brightly, making her way toward him. “If it isn’t Chicago’s favorite waste of bootlegger money! You’ve certainly managed to clean up well.” He had, and it was a little disconcerting how well that blue suit fit his powerful chest and broad shoulders. Idril took a deep breath. “Come onto the balcony with me for a minute, would you? I need to talk to you.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And stop it with that ma’am, I’ve told you, we’re far past that now. And don’t bring the shrimp.”

Outside, the snow whirled around in the freezing air, but Idril’s face was burning to the point where she barely noticed. There was a moment of awkward silence as she tried to sort out what to say.

“Cold out here, ain’t it?” remarked Tuor at the exact second she blurted out “Do you like me?”

“Well, sure, I like you,” said Tuor after another moment of awkward silence. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“I guess I should’ve made that clearer. Do you like me in the same way you like Voronwe, or do you like me in the way that boys in sappy novels like girls?”

“Idril,” said Tuor. “Are you asking me if I love you?”

“Er…” Idril looked down at her feet. “Suppose so, yeah.”

For a third time, silence. Then she felt a hand gently cupping her chin.

“ _Yes_ ,” said Tuor, and kissed her.

She wasn’t exactly sure how long she stood there, wrapped in his big, warm arms, with the stubble on his face prickling her lips, but when they finally pulled apart he was looking at her so adoringly that it made her melt.

“You’ll marry me if I ask you to, right?” he asked.

“Darling, I’m going to marry you whether you ask me or not.”

He laughed, and leaned in to kiss her again.

 


	6. Interlude: The Hangover

_Christmas Day, 1926_

_Chicago_

He woke up at one in the afternoon, with his head feeling like a freight train had crashed into it and absolutely no memory of what he’d done the previous night.

Glorfindel groaned and sat up, glancing down and realizing he was still in his suit. The trousers were wrinkled and there was a stain on his waistcoat. God, he must have really been out of his mind last night, because otherwise there was no way he’d allow one of his suits to get damaged.

Reaching over to his nightstand, he picked up the telephone and called the first person he could think of.

“ _Mmmm_?”

“Morning, Idril.”

“It’s the afternoon.”

“Afternoon, Idril. Do you have any idea what I did last night?”

“Well, frankly, darling, I wasn’t paying much attention to you. You don’t remember anything?”

“I remember going to your dad’s Christmas party. Everything after the first martini is a little fuzzy.”

“Hmm. Well, I was too busy getting engaged to remember much of your shenanigans, but I’ll fill you in on what I can…”

“Wait. You got engaged?”

“You don’t remember that? Glorfindel, I’m offended. You were the first person we told, after we came back from the balcony and you accosted us.”

“Who are you engaged to?”

“Maeglin.” There was a moment of silence, then Idril sighed. “Oh, honestly, Glorfindel. I’m engaged to Tuor. Remember? You said we’d have beautiful babies but we’d have to make sure they didn’t turn out to be hillbillies, and then you made some remarks that I am _not_ going to repeat here?”

“I remember nothing of this.”

“You’re ridiculous. Anyway, that’s all I can fill you in on. You and Ecthelion and Rog left after that.”

“Suppose I’ll have to call Ecthelion, then. He’s good at remembering. Congratulations, by the way.”

“Thanks.” Idril hung up, and Glorfindel attempted to contact Ecthelion. Alas, his friend was apparently not available. With a sigh, he dialed up Rog.

“Delafleur, old sport!” bellowed Rog, setting off explosions of pain in Glorfindel’s head. “Swell party last night, eh? You certainly seemed to have a good enough time.”

“Ow. Yes, I suppose I must have, considering I don’t remember any of it. What did we do after we left the boss’ party?”

“You don’t remember?” Rog chuckled. “You skinny chaps can’t hold your liquor. Anyway, we went to Salgant’s restaurant. You drank three gin rickeys and then you and Salgant sang the entire score from _Pirates of Penzance_. Quite a performance. I was proud of you.”

“Happy to oblige. What happened then?”

“Well, by that time it was nearly two, so I had to run home to the missus. I think you and Ecthelion were going to head off to your house after that. Suppose you’d better talk to him.”

“Well, merry Christmas, then.”

“Merry Christmas.” Glorfindel hung up the phone just as the door to his room opened and in walked Ecthelion, carrying two steaming mugs that smelled heavenly.

“Morning, sport. Coffee?”

“You’re a prince among men, Ecthelion. Say, do you remember what we did after we came home last night?”

“Ah.” Ecthelion sighed. “Well, as soon as we got here, you picked up the phone but realized you didn’t have anyone to call, so you spent ten minutes flirting with the operator. The _male_ operator. I think you two have a date for next Tuesday.”

“Lovely. What next?”

“Then you made some very inappropriate remarks about Idril getting engaged, and then you started crying about missing your father.”

“Oh dear. So what did you do?”

“What could I do? I got you a cup of tea, patted you on the back, and got you to bed. Then I went and passed out on your couch.”

“Well.” Glorfindel took a sip of his tea. “Thanks, old boy.”

“Anytime.”

Glorfindel sighed. “I am never drinking that much again.”

Ecthelion winked and raised his mug. “Not until the next time anyway.”

“Until the next time,” laughed Glorfindel, raising his mug in return.


	7. In the Belly of the Beast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heya nerds! Sorry I've been gone for so long, but as it happens I've just moved to Hong Kong to teach English to kiddos. I love it here, it's like Chinese London. Anyway, mobsters.

_May, 1930_

_Chicago_

 

It was a stupid thing to notice while tied to a chair in an enemy gang’s headquarters, but Maeglin couldn’t help but think the decor in here was incredibly tacky. Who in this century decorated a speakeasy like it was a gothic castle?

He didn’t say this aloud, of course. Partly because he didn’t want to get shot, and partly because his jaw felt slightly dislodged.

“So. Maeglin Gates.” Morgoth (just Morgoth, no last name…he’d dropped it and his original first name years ago, to get the European authorities off his track) sat down in the chair across from him. “Turgon Gates’ darling nephew. Lovely to have you drop in on us.”

“I didn’t drop in on you. You jumped me in an alley and dragged me here,” Maeglin retorted, or at least tried to, since his jaw still didn’t seem to be working properly. Morgoth simply laughed.

“This doesn’t have to go badly for you, you know. In fact, we could work out something mutually beneficial.”

“How could you in any way benefit me?”

Morgoth smiled. “You know, Maeglin, you and I are quite similar. No, no, it’s true. We both come from prominent families, neither of us had what you could call a swell relationship with our fathers, and we’re both highly intelligent men who  _know_  we deserve more. And I think both you and I know what you deserve, Maeglin.”

He did know what he deserved. Or at least  _hoped_  he deserved. He’d been trying to repress how angry he was at Idril’s new family, at how his uncle adored them and treated Maeglin like a child, but it had been getting more and more difficult. Sooner or later, he was bound to snap.

“Here’s what I think you deserve, and what I’m willing to give you,” said Morgoth. “I’ve got plans to take over your father’s gang in Chicago, making it a branch of mine. In exchange for some helpful information, I’m willing to put you in charge of that branch. In addition, I have it on good information that a certain pretty little cousin of yours has a hillbilly husband who you’d like to have…disposed of. I can arrange that.”

Maeglin’s eyes widened. “You…you can?”

“My dear boy, I’m a mob boss, not the Archbishop of Canterbury. What do you think I do to people who cause trouble for my associates and I?”

“But you won’t let anything happen to Idril?”

“You may consider her under my full protection. So, do we have a deal?”

He wanted to do the right thing. He wanted to say no, to tell this slimy con man that the Gates family did not betray each other.

But he couldn’t.

“We have a deal.”


	8. Merry Christmas

_Christmas Day, 1935_

_Connecticut_

In the end, it hadn’t been the market crash or the end of Prohibition that had ruined them. Turgon Gates was a practical man, and he’d had more than enough money set aside to keep the network running. No, what had ruined them had been Maeglin. Apparently he’d had some secret deal with the Angband mob, letting them in on the family’s inside information, enough to make them able to do a complete takeover.

It had been six months, and every time Idril closed her eyes she could still see the blood and broken glass, hear the gunshots, see her father on the floor with a bullet wound in his chest. Sometimes she still woke up from horrible dreams of Maeglin holding a gun to her son’s head. But as angry as she’d been with Maeglin, it still hadn’t been easy to see her husband blast a hole in his heart with a shotgun.

As soon as Maeglin had breathed his last, they’d grabbed what money and necessities they could find and fled to the train station. No time to mourn friends and family; the cops would be coming any minute and no one wanted to be mixed up in that. The soonest train was to Connecticut, where Idril had recalled her cousin Gil lived, and the three of them along with Voronwe had wound up on Gil’s doorstep in the peaceful town of Gray Haven in the middle of the night. Gil had been very obliging, and the four of them had been staying with him ever since.

Now it was Christmas morning, and Idril watched fondly as Earendil and little Elwing Bergman opened their presents and squealed with glee. Elwing was an orphan, the ward of Gil’s old friend Cirdan Fellini, and the granddaughter of the famous Luthien duBois and Beren Bergman. Idril remembered reading about them in the papers when she was a girl; headlines screaming things like  _SOUTHERN BELLE ELOPES WITH BOUNTY HUNTER_ and  _GOVERNOR OF LOUISIANA DISOWNS DAUGHTER_. Luthien duBois had been called the prettiest girl in America back in the Gay Nineties; now this sad little curly-haired girl was all that remained of that illustrious family.

Elwing smiled softly as she opened the present Idril had picked out especially for her—a beautifully bound first edition of Anne of Green Gables. “Oh, Aunt Idril, it’s lovely. Thank you so much.”

“You’ll like that book,” said Earendil brightly. “It’s really a girls’ book but I liked it a lot when Ma read it to me. Wow, a train set! Santa must’ve gotten my letter after all.”

“I sent it to him special delivery,” said Tuor with a grin. “Wasn’t going to take any chances with my boy’s Christmas list.” It was amazing how, after everything, he could still smile so easily. It took real effort on Idril’s part these days.

Gil laughed. “Looks like you’re more responsible than I thought you were, old sport! Say, what time is it? I expect Mrs. O’Riley will have lunch for us now. Put down the presents, kids, and we’ll all go have something to eat, eh?”

Reluctantly the kids put down their toys, and Gil and Cirdan shepherded them out of the room. Idril began to rise, but Tuor put his hand on her arm.

“Hold on a minute. I have a present for you.”

“You got a present for me? But…” With a sudden guilty shock, Idril realized that in the midst of all the sadness and stress and concern over the children, she’d forgotten to get her own husband a Christmas present. “I don’t have anything for you. I forgot. I’m so sorry…”

“Don’t be sorry. You’ve been miserable, anyone could see that, and you’ve been stronger than plenty of people would be. That’s why I wanted to get you something.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small package. Inside was a photograph in a small silver frame—a photograph of her father, happy and smiling, holding a tiny baby Earendil. Idril gasped.

“Where did you…”

“I grabbed it from your dad’s office before we left Chicago. Forgot all about it, but then I found it in my things a few weeks ago. Thought you might want to have it. Oh, God, you’re crying, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…”

“No, it’s all right,” said Idril with a sniff. “I’m not upset. I’m crying because I’m happy. It’s beautiful.” She wiped her eyes and kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you, darling.”

Tuor smiled, and pulled her into his arms. “I love you. Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas.”


	9. Epilogue: The Sins of our Parents

_Yale University_

_1972_

“Excuse me. You are Elrond van Hador, right?”

Annoyed, Elrond didn’t glance up from his biology textbook. “No. That’s not my last name.”

“Funny. It was your father’s.”

This was enough to get Elrond to look up at the speaker–a tall, thin man in an impeccably tailored suit, probably in his late seventies although with with an oddly young-seeming face. He was carrying some kind of package wrapped in brown paper. “I’m sorry, have we met?”

“We haven’t, more’s the pity.” The man held out a hand. “Glorfindel Delafleur, at your service.”

Elrond stared. “Glorfindel Delafleur?”

“The very same. You’ve heard of me?”

“Well, yes, obviously, but…I was under the impression you died in 1935.”

Glorfindel grinned. “That was the idea, yes. Nearly did die, in fact, but managed to pull through. I’ve been encouraging the stories of my death, though. Can’t be too careful.”

“So why…”

“No more questions from you right now, young man,” Glorfindel interrupted smoothly. “I’ve got a few for you myself. Firstly, why exactly isn’t your last name van Hador, when I happen to know that both your father and grandfather had that name?”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but my father abandoned my brother and I when we were three years old,  _supposedly_ on secret government business,” Elrond snapped. “And my mother fled the country two years later. We have no connection to the Van Hador family, so we changed our last name to Peredhil as soon as we legally could.”

“I see. And secondly, where is your brother?”

Elrond took a deep breath, staring at the ground. “In Vietnam.”

“Ah.” Glorfindel gestured to the bench Elrond sat on. “May I sit down?”

“Go ahead.”

He did so. “First of all, I want to say that I’m very sorry about everything that has happened to your family,” he said, and sounded like he meant it. “Second of all, you should know that your parents never lied to you. It was imperative that your parents leave the country, for reasons I’m afraid I can’t get into. They didn’t forget about you, though.” He held out the package he had been holding. “Back in the early 40s I sent your grandmother Idril a discreet address where I could be contacted. Before she and your grandfather left for England in ‘53, she sent me this. For her future grandchildren, she said, whenever you were ready. You’ll pass what she said onto your brother, I hope. He deserves to know everything too.”

“I…yes, thank you.” Elrond took the package hesitantly.

Glorfindel smiled and stood, patting Elrond on the shoulder. “I’m afraid I’d better be off now. And I’m getting on in years, so I can’t say I’ll be around much longer, but as long as I am, my address is in that package and you can contact me if you ever need anything. Goodbye, Elrond Peredhil. And good luck.”

—————————————————————————————————-

He didn’t have a chance to open the package until that evening, when classes had finished. The first thing he pulled out was the slip of paper where Glorfindel had written his address, which Elrond carefully folded and hid in his desk. The rest of what was in the package seemed to mostly be photographs tied in a bundle, with a letter on top. This Elrond unfolded and began to read.

_To my dear grandchildren,_

_I can’t say how sorry I am that it will be a long time before we meet, if at all. The trouble is that your granddad and I are both getting older, and what we need is clean English air at this time of our lives._

_I am not leaving this letter with your parents…rather, I am sending it to an old friend, one who I know will be able to keep it safe. You see, I want you to know the truth about our family. Why it is that your father and mother may be unexpectedly called away without being able to tell you why._

_You’ve heard, I expect, that the Gates family–my family–has been involved with some criminal activity in the past. My father’s branch of the organization, in Chicago, was one of the “better-behaved” parts of the family, or at least one of the less violent. Our other relatives were not quite as conscientious. Needless to say, our entire family was high up on the government’s watch list._

_After our narrow escape from Chicago, your grandfather and I decided that the only way for us to live normal lives again was to turn to the right side of the law. We went to the FBI and, in exchange for full pardons, told them everything we knew…about the Gates Artificial Diamonds, about the Angband mob, and even our own family’s activities._

_They made us give them one more promise: that our family would assist the United States Government in any investigations in which they feel we’d be an asset._

_At the time, I was certain this was the right thing to do. Now that Tuor and I are retired and leaving the country, I’m not so sure. Because this burden is now going to pass to your parents, and eventually, to you. But please do believe me when I say that I have utmost faith in you, and your mother and father._

_For now, I will end by giving you the best advice I can: Be careful. And be prepared._

_Love,_

_your grandmother Idril_

 

Elrond set down the letter, an odd calm settling over him. This was to be his role in life, then...a doctor and a spy. Probably never a moment of peace again, for as long as he lived.

But if it was for the good of others, then...

"So be it," he said out loud.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone is spies now! Please let me know if you would like more spies in the future.


End file.
